


Intermezzo

by Lymphadei



Series: The Private Room [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Introspection, M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 22:38:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6212941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lymphadei/pseuds/Lymphadei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock struggles to find steady ground after learning of John's departure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intermezzo

**Author's Note:**

> So it begins. Next week, I hope to have the first chapter of Blue by You (name change, thanks to my friend Crickette) up. Stay tuned for more, and please enjoy this brief interlude. 
> 
> Also, if you're just checking this out without having read Into the Grey, then it will be a bit confusing.
> 
> Thank you to my wonderful betas who helped me get this out [Superoreoman](http://superoreoman.tumblr.com), Crickette, and Kami-no-ikku! You are all so amazing and helpful, and this fic wouldn't be what it is without your expertise!

Sherlock was pretty sure someone had come in the door, but he was somewhere on another plane, in another existence, thinking of a melody he'd composed months ago. He vaguely recalled it, but his body had memorized the motions by rote.

Sherlock raised his hand and plucked the air, recalling the weight of the sturdy metal strings of his violin against the pads of his fingers, hearing the delightful twang as it vibrated back into stillness. Sherlock kept his eyes closed and let himself be carried away.

Behind his eyelids, darkness dwelt, but even further beneath that, Sherlock opened his eyes to another reality; a door in his mind palace. _The_ door.

Thank

Sherlock stepped inside the room and closed the door, one hand already on the knot of his scarf, his eyes riveted on the lovely creature knelt before him.

 The doorknob slipped from his grasp, smooth and cold as it slid away from his fingertips.

 “Mm,” Sherlock groaned low in his throat as he pulled the scarf from around his throat. Strong, pale thighs spread wide for him, and in between that, a reddened cock Sherlock wanted to run his tongue over. He wanted to push him back and glide over him, grind into him.

  _“Sherlock.”_

 Sherlock dropped the scarf and slid the coat off his shoulders, letting it fall into a heap at his feet. The jacket followed, and Sherlock began on the buttons of his shirt.

 It had been too long since he visited this particular room, and yet, his boy was still waiting so patiently for him.

 “Miss me?” Sherlock asked, his voice quiet and intimate in the enclosed space. White cotton fell to land on top of the pile, until Sherlock was left standing in only his trousers. One hand massaged his aching hardness, the fullness of his bollocks, over the zip of his trousers.

 The blond head nodded once, firmly, and then his boy fell still again. Sherlock despaired of the fact that he couldn't see his eyes, those deep, fathomless blue spheres that dragged him down to deeper depths than he'd ever thought possible.

  _“Sherlock!”_

 Sherlock stepped closer and watched, riveted, as those legs seemed to spread wider for him. “Always so eager for me,” he said, and knelt in front of his love. “Even when you couldn't conceive of all the things I think about doing to you.”

 The ground was faintly trembling beneath his knees, but Sherlock didn't care. He lifted a hand and tilted that beautifully defiant chin up, and leaned forward to plant a soft kiss on inviting lips. The first taste was sweet and full-bodied like the honey the bees in his Sussex apiary produced, lingering on his tongue so delightfully. Sherlock slid his hand to cup the back of his lover's neck and delved inside as deep as his partner would allow. He was a glutton, wanting more than he needed, _taking_ more than he needed, but it was inevitable that they would conjoin and become one entity. That was the only way that Sherlock could survive _him._ If they were one person, then neither one would ever have to be without the other.

 “John,” Sherlock moaned into his mouth, and pulled him close. John's hands were bound behind his back, pushing his chest into Sherlock's as their lips violently melded together, until Sherlock was not sure where he ended and John began.

  _“221 Baker Street, flat B. Immediately!”_

 Sherlock could taste the blood in his mouth, see it dripping on the floor between them. Somehow, John's hands were free of his bounds now, and they were tearing one another apart, scratching skin to shreds. The pain was unbearable, but it hurt worse to pull away, and eventually, Sherlock found that he couldn't, even if he wanted to.

  _“... he's breathing, but he's showing signs of tachycardia...”_

 “Fuck you,” Sherlock growled into the kiss, unsure where the animosity came from that he felt drudging up inside of him, but it washed over him so strongly until the words were torn from his throat. He was biting, nipping, tearing, and John was gasping in either ecstasy or pain, or both. It didn't matter, because he was there with Sherlock and they were doing something phenomenal.

  _“... put him in the recovery position...”_

 John's lips were split and bloodied and Sherlock ran his tongue over the fissures until his mouth was filled with the bitter taste of copper and metal. His body tingled mercilessly under the onslaught of John's clenching fingers; his heart beat furiously beneath his skin, a litany of pulsations that quickly grew uncontrollable. John was sucking the life right out of him, drawing his essence with poisonous lips and unfathomable eyes that Sherlock could never stop himself from getting lost in, even when he would rather close his eyes to stop them from uncovering all of his hidden depths.

 The room was crumbling around him and from somewhere in his palace, a great, splintering crack reverberated like thunder. The windows began to rattle until the cracks webbed out like long, spindly fingers, and imploded, only to land at their knees. The pain was secondary. John was growing cold in Sherlock's grasp, like the many corpses he'd stood over with Lestrade. John's skin was the colour of freshly fallen snow, thin and sickly, but his indigo eyes stood out just as boldly as they had ever done.

  _“...BP is 150 over 93, we...”_

 John's hands had travelled up the nape of Sherlock's neck, cutting bloody crevasses into his skin. Sherlock's breath stuttered as he stared back at John, and a hand dislodged from his lover's bloody side and grasped at his own chest, clutching at the shirt. It hurt so bad. He couldn't breathe. What was John doing to him?

  _“...giving him one milligram of Midazolam… intramuscular injection in the ...”_

 John's skin was ashen and dry, tiny crevices inching across every patch of skin that Sherlock could see. “John,” he cried softly, ignoring the way his voice cracked on the name.

 John lowered his head and shook it sadly, his lips pursed in the way they did when he was disappointed. Why? Why was he disappointed? What was happening to him?

 Somewhere, voices crackled in and out of existence like a tuning radio, and John's skin began to snap away and fall to the ground in loud clatters like porcelain plates, shattering into pieces as his body crumbled. Sherlock wanted to cup his palms and catch it all, but the pain in his chest was widening, until sitting up was impossible. His vision grew blurry, and the line between reality and fantasy blurred in and out.

 Sherlock was surrounded by people, unfamiliar fingers touching him everywhere, and then he was in his mind palace, watching the last of John separate into a million tiny fragments on the ground. He wanted to scream, to yell, to put him back together like the puzzle Sherlock never ceased to know him as.

 The world narrowed, and Sherlock squeezed his eyes closed as the pain grew and grew until he thought that his heart might very well tear itself right out of his chest.

 Sherlock didn't fight the darkness that settled over him; he kept his eyes closed and instead found solace in it.

 

-

  _Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

  _-_

 

  _...Beep. Beep. Beep..._

 

_-_

 

_BeepBeepBeepBeep._

  _“Sherlock!”_

  _Murmuring voices. A constant spiral. He was spiraling all the time, it seemed. His chest hurt._

  _“... It's alright. You're in hospital...”_

  _Sherlock's eyelids were welded together, but he needed to see what was left of his mind palace after John, after the chaotic dismantling of their room, of Sherlock, his sacred place._

  _The light was too bright._

  _“Sleep.”_

 

_-_

 

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

 “...he'll be fine with enough rest.We'd like to keep him a little longer so that we can monitor his progress.” The voice paused to allow whomever was listening a moment to let the information sink in. “We are concerned that Sherlock is a bit underweight. Three full meals a day and light snacks in between is what I would recommend, and 2.5 litres of water is the suggested daily intake for men.”

 A put-upon sigh. Mycroft, obviously.

 God, his head was pounding.

 “I'm sure you know all of this, Mr Holmes, but humour me, please. I assure you, this is all procedure and I am required to go over this with you, so that should you have any questions, I will be able to answer them in a timely manner.”

 “Of course, doctor. Now, what is it that you really want to say?”

 A deep breath. “Yes, well... Physically, Sherlock will be fine, but psychologically, we won't know for certain what state he will be in until he is conscious.” Sherlock could hear Mycroft's overpriced shoes sliding over the lino as he stopped somewhere near the bed. “Mr Holmes, I would recommend a rehabilitation centre for your brother, or at the very least, counseling. Had you not shown up when you did, your brother would have lost his life.”

 “Yes, doctor, I am fully aware,” Mycroft stated calmly, yet Sherlock's faculties weren't dulled enough that he couldn't hear the strain behind his brother's words.

 Ugh. Mycroft would be insufferable after this.

 “I'll have one of the nurses bring in a few pamphlets for you to look through-”

 “No need. I have the perfect place in mind, already.” Pause. “I knew such a day would come, eventually.”

 Of course he had, the arrogant twat.

 The doctor cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Ah, well then, I'll leave you with your brother for the time being. Don't hesitate to press the call button if you need anything.” Another pair of shoes – faux leather, cheap – retreated towards the room door, and with little fuss, Sherlock was left alone with Mycroft.

 Sherlock wasn't planning on opening his eyes, but he could feel the full force of Mycroft's glare on his person, and the urge to snap was on the tip of his tongue. No doubt Mycroft already knew that Sherlock was awake, but he tottered between ignoring his brother in favour of sleep or facing the music now, and getting it out of the way. His head still throbbed as if he'd been battered, and in his chest, a dull ache left him feeling hollow. Sherlock couldn't tell if it could be attributed to his accidental overdose or the memory of John that lingered at the edge of every thought.

 Deciding that it was better to let Mycroft say his peace so that Sherlock could be alone, he opened his eyes, slowly, so as not to aggravate the migraine he already had.

 Everything was blurry, to begin with, but after a few strong blinks, Mycroft's figure came into focus. There was very little light in the room, save for a lamp on the desk beside the bed that glowed softly beneath the shade. The curtains were tightly shut and the telly was off. It wasn't a big room, but cozy and private, and possibly hard to get to, considering his public status and Mycroft's influence. Sherlock wondered if he would see himself on the news if he ever got around to watching it. In any case, he didn't plan to stay for long. He had a business to run and mysteries to solve.

 “Sleep well?” Mycroft enquired icily, his green eyes scanning Sherlock in that ever-familiar way. Sherlock resisted the urge to growl in annoyance. Honestly, the silly games they played with one another. Sherlock didn't have the patience for it, so he said nothing. Mycroft walked around to the end of the bed and picked up the clipboard, flipping the pages back as his eyes scanned the sheets. “Cocaine intoxication. Tachycardia. High blood pressure. The list goes on,” Mycroft said quietly, firmly.

 Mycroft placed the clipboard back at the end of the bed and looked up at his silent brother. His eyes were shrewd and his lips twisted in a moue of distaste. “Sherlock Holmes, the CEO of Holmes Pharmaceuticals is in hospital after overdosing on cocaine Friday evening. That would make for a lovely headline, wouldn't it?”

 Sherlock sighed and decided it would have been better to feign sleep until Mycroft left. He would take that into consideration next time. “If you're quite done being dramatic, Mycroft, I'm tired and I want to sleep," he rasped, throat catching uncomfortably over the words. His tongue felt heavy.

 “No,” Mycroft snapped, suddenly, and Sherlock's mouth snapped shut. Mycroft rarely lost his composure, but now the man was positively seething. Sherlock hadn't seen his brother this red since he'd caught him with a peer during their younger days. “You will listen to me, Sherlock, because it is time that you act like the man you are supposed to be. Now, I had to watch you nearly kill yourself because you're too thick to discern when enough is enough!”

 Mycroft stepped closer to the bed, until he was looming over Sherlock, just as he always did when they were younger and he was trying to assert his dominance. It was hateful, but Sherlock couldn't deny the guilt and embarrassment of being found by Mycroft in such a state. “I've allowed you to play your games with Moriarty and I let you run around with that- that _boy,_ and look where it has gotten you!” Mycroft sneered and turned away, his shoulders rising and falling until he'd gotten himself under control.

 When he turned back, Mycroft's face was stern, but clear, as was the message behind it all. “No more of this nonsense. I've told you before, and I will tell you again: caring is not an advantage.”

 There was the truth of it all. Caring was _not_ an advantage. John had shown Sherlock that. John had- had _left_ him. The very thought of his absence sent shards of pain through Sherlock's chest.

 “I've kept this incident quiet, Sherlock, so you will repay me by completing any rehabilitation program of my choosing. You will get better, and you will pull yourself together, or everything you've worked years to build will be in shambles at your feet. And if such a thing occurred, brother dear, I will not be there to clean up after you.”

 Sherlock closed his eyes, ashamed and angry. He didn't know who he was angry at more: himself, for caring, or John, for his existence.

 Mycroft took his silence as acquiescence and retreated, picking up his umbrella from by the door where he left it, leaving the room silent save for the beeping of Sherlock's heart rate monitor.

 

-

 

There was a man that owed Sherlock a favour. Sherlock had proved his innocence in the rape of a girl at a uni party. _Someone_ had drugged her beer and taken her to an empty room, but it hadn't been William Murray. Now, Murray was going to train at Pirbright barracks in Surrey for the medical corps, with John, and he owed Sherlock a favour. Sherlock would see it paid, and Mycroft would never have to know.

 He was weak, but the loss of John to a place even Sherlock could not reach had been a blow. Had he never reached out to a reluctant Sarah on details of John's whereabouts, he would have never known...

 Sherlock had given John time and space; he hadn't shown up at John's parents house, even though once or twice, he found himself sitting in the backseat of his car for several long moments, struggling with himself and the directions to give his new driver (now that Sebastian Moran had revealed himself). Sherlock wanted to see him, but John never called and never visited. Sherlock found himself questioning John's existence, but those barely worn clothes in his wardrobe didn't fit him correctly.

 Though Sherlock didn't feel anything more than a distant disdain for Sarah Sawyer, he was desperate enough to reach out to her when John failed to answer any of his calls or texts.

 She was angry with him at first, as if she knew anything about his relationship with John. However, Sherlock was a persuasive man - manipulative, some might say - and in the end, he'd gotten the answers he was looking for, much to his regret.

 There was no word for the depths to which his stomach plunged, nor the ache in the centre of him that reached on endlessly. John had taken himself somewhere that Sherlock would never be able to touch him, escaped, as if residing in a place where Sherlock Holmes might find him was unbearable. Not only that, but John was putting himself in harm's way. It killed him to know that the last memory of John could very well be of anger and betrayal.

 His emotions ranged from the numbness that came with the shock, to the anger and resentment that tore through him so furiously that it constricted his throat and clouded his vision. Sherlock knew that by the end of the night, he would make it so he wouldn't have to think about a thing.

 Every night, it became routine: Work, home, cocaine, sleep. Work, home, cocaine, sleep. Lestrade came with cases, but they were never interesting enough to distract him.

 Moriarty had even turned up the night of his row with John, taunting him, bragging. Sherlock let him speak and when he was done, Sherlock turned to him and said, “What I did to you before, Moriarty, that was not pain. You've never known pain... " _Not truly, not like this_. "but you will.”

 The mad man only thought that it was funny; he laughed in the face of Sherlock's misery. Sherlock didn't care; none of it mattered. Moriarty would learn soon enough.

 

-

 

It was months after John's absence, and the evening of Sherlock’s unfortunate… incident with the cocaine. Sherlock hadn't touched another person since John, and now, he began to feel the need swell up inside of him. He needed John, needed his submission and his honest eyes, needed that lovely arse sitting in his lap, those thighs wrapped round his hips; everything. Sherlock needed John.

 Sherlock left work and ordered his driver to an address in the heart of the city. Hiding in plain sight, this building, with its dated masonry and old world feel. No one would think that a place like this was right under their nose.

 Sherlock stepped out of the car and instructed his driver to leave until he called him. Obediently, the driver pulled away as soon as the door shut behind Sherlock, pulling smoothly back into traffic.

 Sherlock sent a text and was buzzed in at the door.

 Upon entry, the place looked like any flat building; entry hall on the ground floor, a set of stairs leading up to the first floor, and a door just behind the staircase that led to the basement. He opened it and entered.

 It was cold and dank, as most basements were, the air thick and humid, but familiar. Sherlock walked down the steps and used his key to unlock the door at the very back of the room, nearly hidden by storage junk. Through the door was a short tunnel lit sparsely with safety lamps. The path was a short walk, but Sherlock always did find it fascinating.

 The tunnel had been there for centuries; the cobblestone walkway and the gritty walls proved it, but there was a secret history to it all. Politicians and aristocrats, celebrities and “upstanding figures” had walked this path, all in the pursuit of the same objective: to shed their skin. Sherlock observed everything, and he knew well enough that a public persona was naught but an extra layer to keep others from seeing what was really underneath. It was Irene who had introduced Sherlock to this hidden depth of London. She'd taken him in and stripped his clothes, made him naked, and stood him in front of a mirror to show him what he looked like without the pretense. Pale, long, lean, anomalous, dangerous... hungry.

 He wanted something, starved for it, and Sherlock understood that the only way he could ever understand himself was if he allowed Irene to peel him back like an onion and reveal his true nature. So he did, and Sherlock was not surprised at what he saw, because he'd felt it long, long before then.

 The tunnel smelled like grime and sewage and reeked with the heady scent that clung to old structures that have stood for centuries. Overhead, rain pounded the streets, but the water never touched the ground beneath. The place was well kept, but not enough to ever arouse suspicion.

 Sherlock reached the door at the end; an old wooden door five inches thick, and laden with grime and taken over by vines. From the arch to the ground, no light escaped the gaps and the door was handle-less.

 Sherlock raised a fist and rapped with his knuckles.

  _TapTapTap._ Pause. _TapTap._ Pause. _TapTapTapTapTap._

 After a moment, the door was opened by an unassuming older gentleman. He was wearing blue coveralls and his wiry grey hairs peaked from beneath a black fleece cap. He offered a mild grin and stepped away from the door invitingly.

 “Lady Adler has been expecting you, Mr Holmes.”

 Sherlock walked through the door, pulling his gloves off as he walked down the last set of stairs that would take him to the underground club. The doorman on the other side pulled it open with an, “Evening, Mr Holmes,” and stepped back to let him through.

 To anyone else, the room would look like an upper class establishment. The room was warm-white from the glow of the pendant chandelier. The tables were positioned around the stage, where a mezzo-soprano crooned a wistful melody into the microphone, turning to smile lovingly at the man playing the saxophone to her left.

 A lone man sat at the table directly in front of her, legs crossed as he sipped absentmindedly at his drink. Couples scattered the tables, meeting eyes over the dancing flame of their candle, making silent promises that Sherlock knew would lead them through a hall and into a room that welcomed hedonistic pleasures.

 Sherlock kept walking, past the stage and the bar, to the firmly shut door on the other side of the room.

 Once the door opened, Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. It had been too long. Sherlock felt the same relief that came with the first slam of cocaine into his system, the first slide into a warm, tight space, and the first whiff of cheap shampoo that made his nostrils flare and body tingle. It was overwhelming and uncontrollable all at once, the terrifying force of his need.

 The hallway was for voyeurs.

 The walls were transparent, offering a clear view into the room and its occupants. Some were vacant, but most were occupied. Sherlock passed a man who masturbated on his own; he enjoyed the feeling of being watched, the rush it gave him not knowing who was on the other side.

 Hm. Boring.

 The next room was a party of six, all engaged in some sort of sexual act. Sherlock had only attended one orgy during his time at the club, but he had never been good at sharing, so it hadn't been a memorable experience. The fourth room was vacant, but the fifth and sixth were couples who were bored with their sex lives and wanted to spice things up. Of course, most of these people were elite members of upper society. The club came with a high membership price, but Irene never made him pay. This was where it had all begun for Sherlock. Irene liked to refer to it as his home, free of rent, free of debt, always open to him.

 The hall opened up to the main room, which was set up to appear more like a hotel lobby than the sex club that it really was. There was even an information desk, which Sherlock approached, flashing a tight smile to Kate, Irene's personal assistant.

 “Mr Holmes,” Kate nodded, and Sherlock returned the gesture graciously. “Lady Adler has prepared your room for you.” She handed Sherlock a simple key. “Room 7.”

 Sherlock nodded and received the key, before turning on his heels and down another hall. The room wasn't very far. Ground floor, the last room on the right, plain white door.

 Sherlock unlocked it and stepped inside. The room was empty and the bed neatly made. Two fingers of whisky awaited him at the table, next to a bottle of Glenfiddich and a carafe of water. The room was large, but not overly so. There was room enough for equipment, but otherwise, it was comfortable and closed.

 Sherlock shrugged off his coat and jacket, hanging them up on the rack by the door, before he rolled up his sleeves and made his way to the table, tossing down his gloves. The smell of the whisky was sweet and sharp, and even better when the taste of apple and cinnamon spices exploded on his tongue, soft and smooth as it slid down the back of his throat. The drink warmed a path down his throat and settled comfortably in his stomach, contenting Sherlock for the time being.

 With a sigh, Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket and unlocked it to open a new thread in his text messages.

 

**To: Irene Adler**

  **Did you find what I was looking for?**

 

Sherlock set the phone down on the table and walked to the cupboard, pulling it open. The array of toys seemed endless and intimidating if one didn't know what they were looking for, but this was not Sherlock's first go round the park. He went to work, pulling out his preferred items and laying them neatly on the bed. On the table, his phone buzzed twice in quick succession.

 Sherlock retrieved it.

 

**From: Irene Adler**

  **Don't I always? Be patient and you will be rewarded.**

 

Just as the message came through, a polite knock on the door drew his attention.

 Ah, that would be the reward, then.

 Sherlock didn't bother giving the room a final look. He knew that everything would be perfect as always, and if Irene wasn't blowing smoke, then his guest would fit the bill, also.

 Sherlock wasn't disappointed.

 Well... Maybe slightly.

 The man was young, short and blond, nearly white-haired, though his eye colour was a bit too bright and John didn't have dimples. The jumper, however, was hideous and bulky, and the jeans were second hand, but nicely fitted. “Mr Holmes?”

 His voice was too low, but that's alright. He wasn't going to be doing much talking anyhow.

 Sherlock nodded and stepped back, his hand fisting as the man slid by him close enough to smell the shampoo he used. At least Irene had gotten this detail correct. The smell triggered something primal inside of him, and Sherlock had to hold himself back from clutching the man back by his jumper and pressing against him from behind. If he didn't look at his face, Sherlock could pretend.

 The man stopped in the centre of the room and turned, crossing his arms and smiling in a way he thought might be seductive. Sherlock already missed John's bashful, self-deprecating smirk. The man opened his mouth to speak but Sherlock swiftly cut in, not wanting to ruin this illusion any further. “Don't talk.”

 For a moment, the escort seemed confused by the command, but quickly smothered it with an annoyingly polite smile.

 “Remove your clothes, then get on the bed, on your knees.”

 The man obeyed immediately. Sherlock's curtness did not surprise him; this was what he did for a living, but Sherlock didn't miss the goose pimples on his skin, or the way his chest rose and fell excitedly. The man's eyes flicked up to meet his, watching Sherlock watch him, but Sherlock broke the stare and focused on the swaths of skin being revealed as each article of clothing found a temporary place at his feet. The escort had a similar build to John's, though his hips were more tapered and his arse, firmer. The only workout John had ever received was during their intercourse. Sherlock imagined that to be a different case now. The army needed their men strong, and Sherlock needed John healthy enough to get through battle and return to English soil, where at least they would be in the same country again.

 Before his thoughts could drift too far, Sherlock snapped back to the scene before him. The escort grinned, happy to have Sherlock's attention on him again, and dropped the last article of clothing at his feet.

 Smiling – again – the man climbed on the bed and knelt, before his blue eyes found Sherlock's, gleaming with anticipation.

 Yes, Sherlock thought, there were many ways this could backfire on him, but even if this little thing brought him closer to John in some way, then that was all that mattered. With one last deep breath, Sherlock closed his eyes and stowed away every screaming doubt, stripped away his layers, and remembered John. When he opened them, he was someone else.

 

-

 

That night, Sherlock went home and drugged himself into oblivion and watched his palace fall, and John with it.

 

-

 

William – Bill – Murray was a happy, good-natured man, sometimes annoyingly so... Well, most times, but amiable and now, useful. Sherlock didn't make a habit of keeping up with his clients, but he was relieved to know that he didn't delete Murray's contact information. He remembered hearing Murray make mention of his plans to enlist in the army, and Sherlock hadn't forgotten him, because according to a lesson from Mycroft many years ago, contacts and connections were crucial to power.

 Murray wasn't due to report to Pirbright for months still, but Sherlock was a man of many trades, and he always made sure that his name was orbiting in every relevant circle. Finding the right people was easy when Sherlock had eyes all over London. It was pulling the right strings that could be tricky.

 Fortunately, the news of his recent hospital stay had been kept under wraps, so when Sherlock made the call, he was gladly received. If certain palms were greased, then it was all for the better. Money kept people happy and compliant, and Sherlock had it in multitudes.

 When the transactions were completed, Bill Murray’s enlistment date was set to a more convenient time.

 It was merely a few days after the conclusion of his rehabilitation program, and Sherlock was grinding his teeth over lost time. This needed to happen soon.

 Murray was an awfully average man, in the sense that if Sherlock were to pass him on the street (or anywhere, for any reason), he would not pay him any mind. His smile was polite, his height was that of the average British male, he was healthy, and Sherlock wanted to roll his eyes at the perfectly parted and combed hairstyle. The only thing that Sherlock found intriguing was the man's choice to enlist into the army. Murray seemed like the kind of man that would be content to live his life like every other dull, ordinary twenty-something; a wife and two perfect children, and a job as an accountant, or something equally boring and mundane.

 Sherlock met him at a neutral place, a coffee shop a few blocks down from his office in Canary Wharf. He had a meeting in an hour, so this wasn't going to take long.

 Sherlock ordered coffee for himself and ordered water and a muffin for Murray before the man arrived. Five minutes later, Sherlock spotted him jogging the last few metres to the door. He was late.

 “Sorry, sorry,” Murray huffed, crashing into his seat with a loud screech as the chair scraped against the vinyl flooring. “Traffic is a nightmare.”

 Sherlock glared and tapped his fingers over the table, waiting for the man to catch his breath. Finally, he leaned forward and crossed his hands in front of him, catching Murray's brown eyes and holding them. “I've a favour to ask of you.”

 Murray's eyebrows rose, and he stuttered a laugh. “Straight to business, are we?”

 “Yes,” Sherlock snapped, “you've wasted enough time as it is. Not all of us have time for afternoon sex.”

 Murray's eyebrows nearly touched his hairline, and his lips snapped shut in alarm as he registered the severity in Sherlock's countenance. Murray's brows lowered and furrowed, shading his concerned gaze. “Yes, anything, of course,” he hurried to say. “What can I do?”

 Pulling his phone out, Sherlock tapped open his gallery and sent a photo to Murray's phone, tucking it away again only when he heard the accompanying buzz of his companion's device. Murray unlocked his phone and tapped on the screen, before flicking his eyes up to Sherlock, this time in honest bemusement.

 “Okay, you've got me. What's this about?”

 Sherlock scrutinized the man closely for a few moments longer. Murray seemed a trustworthy man, honest, but his silence needed to be ensured. “That is a friend of mine. His name is John Watson. At the moment, he is training at Pirbright for active service in Afghanistan; Medical training, to my knowledge, ” Sherlock paused, waiting for a confirmation from Murray that he understood. “I want updates on his status during your time in training with him. I understand he will deploy at an earlier date and that the two of you won't be in the same unit, but while he is there, I want regular updates on his progress.”

 Murray stared at the photo of John, unsure, and tore his eyes away briefly to meet Sherlock's steady gaze with his own uncertain one. “Wait, so my enlistment date changing… the earlier date and all,  that was you?”

 Sherlock raised his chin, stubbornly refusing to answer. Murray was itching to get to Pirbright, obviously. He hated London, couldn't afford it, and he was tired of routine. He wouldn't be offended by Sherlock's meddling, not that he would have a choice, but he was an honourable man, and he would have questions that Sherlock would rather not answer.

 “Okay, not a chatty bloke, then.” Murray, turned back to the phone in his hand. “You're not – you know, stalking him or anything, are you?”

 Sherlock narrowed his eyes and tightened his jaw on the harsh words that strained at the back of his throat. “Did I not say that he is a friend,” he snapped, annoyed that he had to reiterate when the explanation had been a simple one.

 Murray hesitated for a long second, then nodded. “Alright,” he said in a placating tone, “no need to get tetchy.”

 “In addition, I'm willing to pay you a nice sum for services rendered, on one condition.”

 Murray clicked off his phone and sat back, crossing his arms over his chest. With a tilt of his chin, he indicated for Sherlock to continue.

 “John must not be made aware of your ties to me, nor are you to tell anyone what you're doing.”

 Murray's dark eyes narrowed suspiciously, but Sherlock could see the moment when he remembered Sherlock's involvement in his investigation and the happiness that he felt at being free and not incarcerated for a crime he didn't commit. Behind his dark eyes also flashed the recognition of a threat unspoken.

 Murray matched his stare and asked quietly, “And if I refuse?”

 Sherlock was expecting this question. He smiled placidly and tilted his head, allowing his unwavering gaze to tell the truth. “Perhaps that is a road you should steer clear of.”

 The silence stretched, and just as Sherlock thought that Murray might decline anyways, the man sat forward and extended his hand. Sherlock stared at it for a moment, before enveloping it with his gloved one. “Deal,” Murray said.

 Sherlock breathed a small sigh of relief as he released Murray's hand, though he kept a neutral exterior. Glancing at his watch, Sherlock stood and placed more than enough on the table to cover their fare, plus a tip. “Good. I'll have my assistant call you for your banking information.” Sherlock threaded his arms into his coat and tied his scarf around his neck, his eyes staring vacantly out of the window. When Murray stood, Sherlock turned to look at him, his lips in a tight line. “If possible, bi-weekly updates are preferable. I'll pay extra for pictures, but it isn't required.”

 Murray nodded, still seeming a bit troubled, but already adapting to the idea of being Sherlock's spy. “And you're sure you don't want me to get a message to him?”

 “Certain,” Sherlock said curtly. “Afternoon, Mr Murray.”

 Sherlock turned on his heel and walked away, restraining the urge to change his mind. There was a lot he wanted to say to John, but Sherlock was terribly, undeniably angry, and everything he might say would be reckless and regretful. For now, Sherlock had to forget him. It was the only way he could get on knowing that the one person he'd ever cared for had left him. Left him for the desert and an uncertain existence because the thought of being with Sherlock was unfathomable to him.

 There was one thing that Sherlock _did_ know. Jim Moriarty's presence had ruined the best thing that had ever come to him, and now, there was no one and nothing to use as leverage against him. Moriarty had made one fatal mistake.

 He'd sent Sherlock's conscience away.

 Sherlock slid into the backseat of the car and pulled up a contact number. He hit the call button.

 “Mycroft, we need to talk.”  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Thoughts, opinions, con-crit? Leave a comment and let me know what you think!
> 
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